Shades of Gray
by Foxfire1
Summary: Immediately after the Purge, a Queen struggles to come to terms with the changes in herself and her homeland.
1. Chapter 1

The Sanctuary was scrupulously clean, but falling into disrepair; even now, the rot was beginning to set in to this Territory. None of that seemed to matter to the old woman who entered the room, nodded her thanks and dismissal to the Priestess in attendance, and walked to kneel painfully before the altar at the Sanctuary's center.

In the depths of the abyss, cocooned by veils of Gray power, she was no longer old. Nor was she a careless girl in the first flush of beauty, but a woman in her prime, strong enough to fight or to heal. She glanced down at her hands - stronger than they'd been in years - and laughed quietly to herself.

_The abyss revealss truth if you heed it_, said a rolling, sibilant male voice from far below her.

She didn't look for the speaker; the faint hint of sound, of scales sliding over scales, was enough to tell her she'd found what - who -she needed. _I halfway believed you were a myth._

_I am not. But only the truly desperate seek me out. What do you seek, little Queen?_

_Safety. For my people._

The silence from below wasn't - quite - mocking.

_I know there's no such thing. And I know - my daughter is a good Queen, and her daughter is likely to be the same. But we can't hold out against Dorothea forever._

_One day Dorothea will fall._

_But not before we do. We need - a guide. Some way to get through the dark times without being consumed as a people._

_I can make a bargain that will give you what you desire. But you will not enjoy it, and you will not remember it._

_If that's what must be done._

For the first time, she sensed something besides simple _presence_ from the being so far below her: respect, and a distant sorrow. _Everything has a price, little Queen. I wish that I could spare you this one._

When she returned to herself, the male presence with her was far different - the Warlord who had been friend, partner and husband for decades. He was already on his way toward her when she stood, tried to take a step, and swayed in exhaustion.

_"Lia!"_ Red power flowed out to catch her and cradle her until he could reach her. "Are you all right? Did it work?"

"No. And yes." Everything had a price; when his psychic scent spiked with pain and sorrow, she knew he'd seen just what she had paid.

"Tell me it was worth it," he said, touching the shattered Gray pendant as carefully as if it were part of her. "At least tell me that."

"It was worth it. I don't remember everything, but the bargain will hold. No matter what, there will always be a Gray Lady in Dena Nehele."


	2. Chapter 2

There would always be a Gray Lady in Dena Nehele. On this day, it was Delia, body and mind ablaze with Gray power that she didn't yet know how to control, feeling off-balance and askew as she struggled to adjust to the changes the Offering had brought about.

The Sanctuary had stood empty when she walked away from the altar, the Priestess in attendance simply _gone_. The land felt emptier still, resonating to an unknown power so strongly that she could sense nothing but those echoes. And her home - her grandmother-

Delia hesitated, her hand on the half-door that led into the house where she'd grown up. Where Phoebe had raised her, two dark-Jeweled witches trying to escape the gaze of Dena Nehele's ruling powers. Because Hayll ruled Dena Nehele now, and a child wearing Delia's Birthright Green was a target for murder. Much less a young Queen, with the potential to wear the Gray in adulthood. So Phoebe had stretched her Black Widow's skills to the limit to hide Delia's strength, becoming a reclusive witch raising her granddaughter at the fringes of the territory, disappointed in the child's weak psychic strength. Queen, yes, but with no more potential than perhaps a Yellow Jewel. The illusion had kept her safe - as safe as possible in Hayll's shadow - but it had taken all her grandmother's strength and skill to do so.

Phoebe's psychic scent - deep and dark with a strangely dissonant twinge, just like hers - still clung around the house, but there was no living warmth to it. She knew what she'd find; she just didn't know _how_.

Or why. Two days ago, Phoebe had been in the best of health - if somewhat distracted, her Widow's eyes looking into landscapes Delia could never see. Then she'd burst into the garden where Delia was weeding, face tight and psychic scent tingling with a mix of anticipation and fear held tightly in check. "We've got to get you to the Sanctuary," she'd said, tugging her unceremoniously up with a hand under her elbow. "Don't trouble yourself with a gift, just tell the Priestess I sent you. She's been hoping for this day for years."

"This day?"

"Your Offering. It's time."

"Gran, _no!_ You keep telling me how important my Offering will be. I need to choose my own time-"

"There _is _no time." For a moment Phoebe's face softened, and she reached out to cup Delia's cheek in one strong, dry hand. "You'll need every drop of your strength to survive the storm that's coming. And Dena Nehele will need you to survive at all. Now go."

She hadn't said goodbye. It hurt, knowing she hadn't said goodbye. But the mingled triumph and fear flowing from Phoebe had been enough to spur her on, running barefoot along the narrow mountain trails until she reached the Sanctuary at the edge of her village. After that...

The Offering had been grueling, she'd expected nothing less, but she hadn't expected to be so alone when she came back to the light. Gray power was running through her, raw and dark and violent, and the deeper, calmer strength she'd counted on to help her channel and understand it was gone. A distant part of her wondered dully how her grandmother had died, but that didn't matter, compared to the simple fact of her absence.

Still. She had to face it eventually.

She set her jaw, laid a hand on the door, and gently pushed it open.

Inside, the cottage where she'd grown up was comfortable and clean, smelling of soap and a faint whiff of the spice bread she'd loved since childhood. It looked...empty, somehow, personal belongings neatly tucked away, the parlor bare of its scattering of embroidery supplies. Phoebe had known she was about to die. Delia bit back anger, forced down fear, and walked slowly through the empty house. It was only in her mind that her footsteps echoed.

The cottage had been tidied, as if Phoebe had expected someone new would be coming to live there. Delia found the last traces of her grandmother's presence in the kitchen, where a letter lay folded next to a wrapped loaf of spice bread.

_Delia._

_I'm sorry for what's happened and what will happen. I'd known for some time that a storm was coming, but I didn't know it would rise this fast, before I could prepare you for your Offering. I pray you're strong enough to come through my lack of foresight, that you've walked out of the Sanctuary wearing the Gray. You will need it._

_My tangled webs won't show me exactly what's coming, only an outpouring of power so intense that my old body won't survive it. But whatever this witchstorm brings, you will not need to hide any longer._

_Nor will you be able to. We've fought Hayll's influence for years. The storm coming for Dorothea will sweep her away, but Dena Nehele will need its Queen. Hayll has worn away at our cities, our culture, our land itself for centuries; you must reawaken them. There's nothing here that will help you. Go to the capital and find Cateley, a Priestess who lives in the heart of the city. She is an old friend and knows much of the history we were compelled to hide from Dorothea. She'll be able to help you find your path._

_May the Darkness embrace you._

Delia folded the letter again, taking a slow, controlled breath. No words of love there, just hasty instructions from a woman who'd spent most of her life under siege. But there was that loaf of spice bread...so many times she'd pestered Phoebe for it, with her grandmother always complaining bitterly and half-jokingly about the trouble it took to make it. She knew what it meant, even if Phoebe hadn't been able to find the words at the last.

It was too soon for smiles. But she brushed a hand over it, nodded to herself, and began to pack for the journey.

* * *

(Author's Note: All right. I didn't mean to do it, but I wound up writing a non-canonical, dark-Jeweled Queen. I _swore _I'd never do it, but the plotbunnies just will not leave me alone. There's a bit more information on Phoebe and Delia in "Dusk Descending" if anybody wants their background, though hopefully this story will stand alone.)


End file.
